


The Hunger

by Quantum_Witch, wanderamaranth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Angst, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Death References, Demons, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Gods, Hallucinations, Magic, Monster of the Week, Mythology - Freeform, Post Season 6, Psychic Abilities, Psychological Trauma, Research, Transformation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/pseuds/Quantum_Witch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderamaranth/pseuds/wanderamaranth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has become God. Sam's mental wall has been shattered. Dean has lost damned near everything important in his life in one day. And while retreating and regrouping, Dean is attacked by something they don't know how to fight, while Sam fights for control of his own mind. A deal is nearly struck, a few brutal truths are laid bare, legions of new enemies are unleashed upon the world… and that's just for starters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Note: See the end of the fic for authors' notes and research (yes, there's always research with us).
> 
> Note 2: This started as an actual script for Season 7 episode 1 [see BIO PAGE for link to original format], written the way it should be in order to incorporate as much as possible from all the disparate reports of what to expect and what people desire –- i.e. more focus on just the Winchesters, returning the brotherly issues to original status, more MOTWs, ending the angel arc, revealing a big bad 'like no other', saving Castiel without destroying him entirely * -– all while striving to be as honestly canonical as possible (and slash-free). We hope we've achieved this and that it gives everyone a little something to be happy about.
> 
> Additional: There may be follow up stories, but we're not about to commit ourselves to writing a full season's worth of scripts. The scraps of sanity we have, we'd like to retain.

_"So you will bow down, and profess your love unto Me, your Lord… Or I shall destroy you."_

The words, quietly intoned as they were, seemed to echo against metal tables and cold, white walls. White, that is, but for the one smeared with a symbol etched in dog's blood and fragments of the late archangel Raphael.

Each human in the room swung their eyes back and forth at one another without lifting their gazes to the self-proclaimed new God: their friend, Castiel. None could tell whose lead to follow, but Dean knew it would come down to him.

Big decisions always had.

"Profess your love unto Me," Castiel repeated patiently. It wasn't phrased as a question or barked out like forceful demand, but delivered calmly, a simple expectation of compliance.

Dean gritted his teeth as he tried to get any part of his brain to work. Only his heart and lungs seemed functional, though, and they were working overtime.

A long moment passed as Castiel regarded Sam, Bobby, and then Dean in turn with the placid, deep, and incredibly alien expression that had taken residence on his face. It made Dean's stomach clench with the sheer wrongness of it.

"I understand," Castiel said serenely into the thick silence. "This is much for you to take in."

The former angel took one step forward, then another. Simultaneously, Dean and Bobby took a step back while Sam wobbled and held onto the stair rails. If he'd been able to step back, Dean suspected his brother would have, but it seemed his vengeful attack with the angel sword had sapped what strength he'd possessed.

Castiel continued speaking as though his friends hadn't practically cowered before him, and that, right then, killed a bit of the hope Dean was clinging to that he'd be able to defuse the situation. "I can be Patience as well as _Agapé_. But I have no desire to be unlimitedly so."

The room went silent after this pronouncement. Dean was unsure exactly what Castiel had said but got the implication. His face contorted with the need to speak yet his brain still wasn't cooperating. Normally his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own with the way it would shoot off, and even though it sometimes led to trouble he was usually able to work his way out of it. For the first time in a long time, he considered that a cute quip or smart-ass remark might not be the best course of action.

"Remember," Castiel's voice grew slightly deeper, slightly sterner, as he cautioned, "I am now also _El-Kanno_." Unblinking, Castiel tilted his head slightly in Dean's direction. "As such, I expect you will act accordingly."

Dean might have needed a dictionary for that one, too, but apparently Bobby didn't if the renewed expression of fear on his face was an indication. Sam was shaking badly, but even he seemed to hear and understand something in that statement that was deeply troubling. He let out a low groan of disbelief (or despair, but Dean didn't want to think of his brother as despairing, not now, because if anything else happened Dean didn't know if he'd-) as trembling fingers scrabbled at the stair railing more firmly in a bid to stay upright.

After another brief pause, Castiel said, "I have matters to attend to in Heaven. Punishments to be meted out. Righteous justice to be served." On the surface it seemed he was compiling a list for himself although it was clear to Dean that Castiel was also warning them he felt they were beginning to waste his time.

Dean could feel icy tendrils of shock setting in at last, numbness stealing across his senses so that he didn't have to think about how wrong and painful the entire situation was. His legs shook, possibly readying themselves to kneel as Castiel had commanded. But Sam suddenly wavered, blood spurting from his nose and mouth and he toppled to the floor in a shuddering heap. Dean snapped free of the spell.

"Sam!" he shouted, rushing to his fallen brother, all other thoughts vanishing from his mind. Dean pulled Sam's head onto his lap, wiping blood from his face and listening for breath. It was wheezy and rattling, but there; Sam was still alive.

He had barely a handful of seconds to be relieved before Castiel's voice interrupted.

"I will return to you," the former angel pronounced. With a strange grumble of what sounded like thunder mixed with the drone of hundreds of wings, Castiel disappeared.

Dean looked around at the room, which seemed so hollow. The angel was gone. **_Really_** _gone_ , something in him whispered.

"Sonovabitch," Dean breathed.

* * *

Sam was lying on Bobby's couch, unmoving. He'd been that way since the night before; the only indications that his rest was not peaceful, the occasional twitch of limbs and low moan. Dean hadn't allowed himself sleep, choosing instead to watch his brother while hoping against hope that he'd wake again. Despite the disquieting vigil, that hadn't occurred. Sam sometimes shifted, but there were no violent leaps or shudders to life.

Dean rose and stretched as he headed to the kitchen for what would be his fifth beer. He passed Bobby - who stood in the doorway between kitchen and study, glass of whiskey in his hand - without a word. Neither had slept, Dean fuzzily guessed; he honestly wasn't sure about Bobby, as all his attention had been focused on Sam. But the older man was just as dirty and messed as he'd been (as they both were, Dean thought) when they left that bleak, blood-splattered building the previous night.

They were frankly lucky not to be more injured, all things considered, some annoying corner of his mind decided to chime in. Though Dean's left arm and wrist were strained, and they were both bruised all to hell, that was the extent of their injuries. If not for the sturdy steel body of his baby taking the brunt of that crash, though…

"Damn it," he cursed softly, leaning on the kitchen counter. "The Impala."

"It'll take me a day or two to bring her back," Bobby said. The older man hadn't said it as if he meant his words to be comforting, but Dean chose to interpret them that way anyways. He wasn't sure how much more bad news he could take, so he was choosing to believe the best.

Dean snorted to himself. Who knew that the end of one's world as they knew it could turn someone into an optimist?

"That's fine," Dean replied. He even meant it.

"No, that's not ' _fine'_ ," Bobby scoffed. He stepped into the room, placing his glass on the table. "And it don't feel right to go off and leave you here with Sam while-"

"It's only been one day," Dean interrupted. "He'd only just remembered Hell, and then he saw Ca—" He snapped his mouth shut on the name. The conversation was not going to shift in that direction, not now, not while he was successfully ensconced in his delusional bubble. ( _Was it really delusional_ , Dean wondered, _if you knew that you were lying to yourself_?)

Recovering after a short beat, he said, "He's only been asleep one day. That's nothing, right?" Dean's voice rung with false cheer. "We've crashed here for longer periods of time in the past with less injury, slept it off, and you didn't worry like this."

Bobby stared in amazement. "There's a helluva difference between cracked ribs and the sort of psychic trauma Sam's gone through, Dean. We don't know what shape he'll be in if, or when, he wakes back up. It's a damn miracle he did in the first place, let alone that he was coherent enough to drive all the way out to find us."

They'd come home in the car Sam had used, and been glad to have it. Bobby had told Dean earlier that he was sure Dean hadn't even so much as considered that, but Sam's strength of will was impressive, more than Bobby had given him credit for. It gave him slim hope, he'd said, that Sam would pull through, but who knew in what condition. Dean could tell the older hunter was settling in to be stubborn and about one inch away from outright refusing to get the Impala at all as he said, "Boy, I don't know about leaving you here alone to deal with it if—"

That wouldn't do at all. The Impala was almost as necessary to his well-being as were Sam, Bobby, and...well. It was _important_.

Dean interrupted gently, "Weren't you the one talking about how we had to do what Sam would want, Bobby? Not even a day ago? What's changed since then?"

Bobby's incredulity spiked. "A _lot_ has changed since then."

There was a heavy pause. Dean stared at Bobby firmly, took a drink from his bottle, and shook his head with a grin he didn't feel. "We're not going there. No." He said it in an almost desperate manner, hoping the subject would be dropped, but Bobby wasn't willing to let it be quite so easily.

"You know I'm not one for care-and-share time, Dean, but we've gotta—"

"I said no, Bobby." Another pause filled the air while Dean looked down at the floor. "Let's just focus on what we can change. We'll start with getting the Impala back up and running, and go from there."

The elephant was rampaging through the room, but Dean stubbornly ignored it. Bobby opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again as Dean watched him struggle for words of comfort. None came, so he went for his usual approach.

"Damn it, if you don't deal with this head on," Bobby grumbled, "it's gonna eat you alive, son. It's one thing to..."

Dean was trying to tune Bobby out, but not to the extent that it suddenly became. The hunter's voice seemed to fade away and everything in Dean's line of vision momentarily blurred. A weak prickling feeling crept up the back of his neck, almost as if tiny claws were slowly but gently pressing into the skin. He raised his hand to touch the spot and was almost surprised to see he wasn't bleeding.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean paid enough attention to Bobby's words to grunt another refusal to discuss the issue of Castiel. A few moments more and Bobby grudgingly departed with his tow truck on the condition that Dean would call if any trouble developed.

Dean sat down in the study with the rest of his beer to watch Sam sleep, relieved the older man was finally gone. His head throbbed in a way he'd never felt before, but he wrote it off as shock. He'd just lost more than half the people in his life.

It was a wonder he was still upright at all.

* * *

Sam woke up slowly, eyes flickering open then slamming shut against sunlight, weak as it was, coming through dirty windows. He took a slow, deep breath, and listened to the near-silence of the room. All he heard were small thumps and clacks on a tabletop, the familiar and comforting sound of a gun being taken apart and cleaned. He let out his breath, relaxing and, eyes still closed, sat up.

Instantly the small thumps became a loud clunk, as Dean dropped the gun on the table and leapt up. "Sam!" Sam heard his brother skid to a halt and drop to his knees in front of him almost before Dean finished the word. "Sam!" he repeated. "You're okay."

There was something off about Dean's voice; it held an almost manic edge to it. Sam opened his eyes again, and what greeted his vision was... ghastly.

Blood was everywhere. Dean was drenched in it, red and black streaked on his face, globules dripping from his arms and hair. His clothes were torn to shreds, burnt patches of skin showing through. The hellish vision was all the more horrible for the stale, half-tilted smile plastered across Dean's features.

Sam's breath caught in his throat, gearing itself up for a scream.

The expression of building panic must have been clear on Sam's face because Dean reached out with bloody arms to grab Sam's shoulders. Sam knew his brother was talking, but couldn't hear a thing over the white noise rushing through his ears.

Because there, on Dean's back, was a creature that had to be from Hell. About the size of a toddler, vaguely humanoid; its skin was translucent and white, its body, hairless. A distended, swollen belly rested beneath a concave chest, topped by bulbous head on a peculiarly thin neck. The head was far too huge for what that rope-like neck should have been able to support, and it wobbled as the creature turned filmed-over eyes toward Sam. They stared at one another for the span of several heartbeats. The monster seemed incredibly surprised that Sam had noticed its presence, as milky-white eyes widened. It detached rows and rows of tiny razor teeth from Dean's neck and hissed at Sam.

Sam choked out a small scream, startling Dean from whatever he'd been saying. The thing stretched back its tightly puckered lips and opened its mouth, head flopping obscenely open like a flip top box as it screamed back at him, a piping ear-splitting noise expelled forcefully from that pencil thin throat.

Sam let out a loud yell of his own, full on panicked now, but still couldn't seem to move.

Dean began shaking his shoulders. Sam was only aware that his apparently-hysterical deafness had faded when he heard Dean shouting, "Sam! Sammy! God damn it, what is it?"

Finally Sam croaked, "Dean! Monster! On your back!"

Yelping and leaping up, Dean grabbed the nearest thing to a weapon at hand – a fire poker – and started swinging randomly. "What? What is it?" He spun in circles, trying frantically to see behind himself. When nothing happened, he slowed down but kept darting his eyes rapidly around the room. "Where did it go? Is it gone?"

Sam blinked his eyes quickly, and the entire room changed. There was no blood, no horrible creature. Dean looked as normal as he ever did. Sam panted for breath, still terrified.

"It's gone now, it's gone."

Dean lowered the poker and looked down at Sam with a creased brow. He said, tentatively, "Sam…?"

"What the hell was that thing?" Sam whispered.

"You're asking me? I should be asking you that." Dean laid the poker down on Bobby's desk and lowered himself into a chair. "What did you see?"

"Little thing. It was white, had all these teeth and…" Sam paused, looking around hesitantly. "And there was blood everywhere." He reached out to touch Dean's arm, feel the un-torn fabric of his sleeve.

Dean watched him with worry and skepticism. "Sam…"

"You were covered, drenched in blood just a second ago. I don't understand…"

Dean took a deep breath. "Okay, Sam, relax. Look," he pushed Sam's hands off his arms and patted his chest. "I'm fine, see? You were probably having, I dunno, like flashbacks to Hell."

There was still something odd, edgy about Dean's behavior. He was smiling again, and Sam knew there was some reason why Dean shouldn't be smiling like that, but his thoughts kept flitting away from him. Dean kept chattering, his voice clear and almost brittle, "I get that. I had nightmares for a really long time after. Still do sometimes. It's something like that, maybe."

Sam was still rattled and worried, slowly and carefully looking around the room. 'Yeah, maybe…"

Dean left the chair and sat beside Sam on the sofa. "I don't know what to do for you, Sam. But just know I'm here. If you need something, you just ask. Okay? And we'll figure it out together."

Mostly to himself, Sam muttered, "But it seemed so real…"

"Yeah, I know," Dean sighed, and looked away, his face pinched. "If you wanna talk about what happened down there…"

Sam shook his head quickly. "No! No, not yet. I mean… I can't yet." He raised his head, frowning and puzzled. "It's actually still fuzzy. Which is weird because until I caught up with you guys at—"

He stopped instantly, panicked again as he remembered Castiel. How he'd stabbed their friend in the back. He swallowed hard and his eyes flicked down.

"Up until then, I remembered everything, even if it was just a big jumble of stuff. I mean, I can remember that I _did_ remember, but now when I try to remember what I'd been remembering, it... But now I… It's sort of fading," he finished, with lame confusion.

Sam lifted his eyes and saw blood and fire filling the room. He gasped and shifted on the sofa, looking toward his brother. Dean appeared to be ripped open, his guts spilling as they had when the hellhound tore him apart. Sam whimpered, turning away. There were red winking eyes in the shadows, but no creatures came out.

Dean grabbed his arms. "It's happening again, isn't it?"

Sam gulped and panted, "Yeah, you're cut up really bad, Dean. It's not pretty… I don't wanna see you like this, I don't know how—" He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Okay, deep breaths, Sam. We're gonna handle this." Dean didn't let go of his brother's arms until Sam's breathing slowed down. "All right. Ah… maybe we can do some research before Bobby gets back. See if there's something we can do to stop visions, tone them down a little bit."

"Yeah," Sam whispered, "good idea." He finally opened his eyes, deeply relieved to see nothing unusual. Then he sighed heavily and put his face in his hands. "Dean, this is… it's a lot like the psychic stuff that happened years ago. When I'd dream things." Looking up again anxiously, he said, "What if it's starting again? If the things I'm seeing are gonna come true?"

"No, Sam. No. It's just hallucinations," Dean said with what seemed to be a genuine attempt at optimism. "Hell scrambled you up inside. Believe me, I know how that feels. But it's not really there. You're probably just, what's the word… projecting your memories over what you see in front of you. I'm not bloody, see?" He held up his hands and waved them. "I'm good, and so are you."

Sam shuddered, saying, "Yeah, you're probably right."

Dean smiled a little then. "Of course I'm right. Now, c'mon," he slapped his thighs and stood up. "You've been out for way too long, gotta be hungry. I know I am. Let's get a bite, eh? Get some beers, go outside. It's a nice clear night. Some fresh air'll do us both good."

Sam tried to smile at his brother, who moved to the kitchen and started rummaging in Bobby's fridge. But he stayed on the sofa a while longer, taking slow deep breaths. He wasn't convinced he'd been imaging things. It had been just too vibrant and alive, what he'd seen. That _creature_ … In the corners of his eyes, he felt he could see movement, furtive and flashing, but when he turned… nothing was there.

He got up and joined Dean in the kitchen. It wasn't over, Sam knew, but he could at least eat and try to keep up his energy for what he figured would be a long night. Actually, he was surprised it had gotten so late without noticing. Yeah, definitely a long night ahead.

Dean had two beers cracked open and sitting on the counter. Sam took one and drank gratefully. He sat down at the table and turned to look carefully around the room.

"Man, I am _starving_ all of a sudden," Dean muttered, digging through the fridge again. "Hey, whaddaya say, Sam? Bacon? No bacon?" He stood with a packet in his hand, waving it enthusiastically.

Sam didn't answer right away. Because he was too busy starting wide-eyed at the phosphorescent glow on the fridge door, in the shape of the blood sigil Castiel painted on it months ago when the angel had sent the brothers back in time to visit Colt. Sam looked down and saw the slightly smoky glimmer of a roughly-drawn devil's trap on the floor.

Dean was still rattling on, oblivious. "What am I asking you about bacon for? When it comes to bacon, with you it's always no. Which is a shame really, because bacon—"

Dean's voice trailed off into the background (something about chili and compromises) as Sam continued to stare around the house. One spot on the wall was bright, and when he squinted he could make out the shape of a hex bag, seen like an x-ray through the plaster. Over the window, what looked like ghostly chicken's feet swayed as though in an unfelt breeze.

Yeah, this was definitely getting bad. Though it was preferable to the blood and fire from earlier.

"Hey, Sam, you listening to me?" Dean's voice snapped through his fog, and Sam jerked his head up.

Dean was right in front of him, and the gore was back, smeared across face and chest. The mark on Dean's left shoulder, the one Castiel had given him, glowed underneath the sleeve of the t-shirt, the outline softened through the fabric.

And the monster was back, larger and looking more human than before, suckling once again on Dean's neck.

Sam choked, unable to react immediately. He watched in horror as the creature sucked up some sort of aura around Dean's head. Colors shimmered in the air around Dean, yellow and white slicked red and bright green. The monster lapped them up, tongue lolling out to drag through them like they were sweet juices pouring from Dean's skull. Its macabre, thin neck shuddered as it tried to swallow, choking even on food so insubstantial.

Sam snapped to action, shouting, "It's back!" He pushed Dean aside, grabbed the bag of salt Bobby kept near the kitchen door, and flung it directly at the monster. Which of course meant it hit Dean and just about everything else in the small room, too. The creature squealed and vanished. Everywhere the salt touched reverted to normal vision. Nothing was glowing or squiggling or smoking anymore.

Dean stood in the center of the floor, sputtering. He didn't say anything, but stumbled forward, suddenly unbalanced. "Damn it, what the hell, Sam?" It was the first time Sam had heard Dean speaking anything like his usual self; it gave Sam a perverse joy.

"There was a… a ghost, or something. On your back."

Speaking carefully, Dean said, "Sam, you know as well as I do that Bobby has this place locked up tighter than..." As a metaphor failed him, Dean finally spat out, "Something really tight. As ghost-proofed as a house can be, this place is. There was no ghost."

When Sam responded, he spoke almost petulantly. "Ghosts have gotten in before."

"Yeah, _before_ ," Dean stressed. "Demon-risen ghosts, no less. What else do you think prompted Bobby to dig up all those old anti-ghost charms? There's no way for a ghost to be here. None."

Stuttering slightly, Sam said, "Y-yeah. You're right." He flopped down into one of the wooden chairs. "Sorry, Dean."

"No need to apologize. Just..."

Whatever Dean was going to say was cut off as he looked at the stove—which was covered with most of the salt. That meant the salt was in the pot, too, which meant... Dean groaned.

"I take it back. Apologize." He threw a despairing look into the pot. "Chow's ruined. Looks like it's now a sandwich night."

* * *

Dean was struggling. His brother wasn't saying much, but Sam watched as Dean —who normally had an obscene appetite— picked at his sandwich with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The tiniest of bites were nibbled off, and swallowed with great difficulty. Picking up his beer, Dean sipped at it and coughed.

"-The hell?" he muttered, glaring at the bottle like it had offended him. "Does this taste weird?"

Dean held it out to Sam, who hesitantly took it, tasted it, and shook his head. "Tastes fine to me."

Frowning, Dean said, "Well, screw it, I'm getting something else." He stood with a little wobble. "Whoa. Maybe I've had enough after all." He sat back down, looking perplexed.

"Dean, are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_!" Dean snapped suddenly, his tone a complete opposite of what it had been just moments before. He slammed the bottle on the table. They both looked surprised.

Sam pressed his lips together, irritated and a bit hurt by the outburst. Yes, Dean tended to lash out when his emotions rose —and Sam had no illusions that his brother was feeling emotional, not after everything with Lisa, Ben, and then Castiel— but when Sam himself was hurting, as he was now, Dean simply didn't act this way. It was… off.

Dean pushed away from the table with a frustrated snarl, leaving the majority of his food untouched. The sandwich had perhaps two complete bites taken out of it, and not Dean-sized bites either, but normal-sized ones. His brother wandered for a moment, as though looking for something to lessen his irritation.

Eventually Dean made his way into the study and turned on the television. Five minutes of flipping through every channel (there weren't many, Bobby didn't have cable) while grunting in annoyance, and Dean stabbed the buttons on the remote until the TV shut off again. He ran his hands through his hair, grumbling.

"Man, you look like you need a nap," Sam said carefully, "did you sleep at all last night?"

"No," Dean grumbled, "that's not the problem, I can go without sleep. I'm just… I dunno. I just need something to calm me the hell down." He spied Bobby's old tape player half-buried under books on a side table, and went to uncover it. "Yeah, some tunes, a little of Zepp's 'Ramble On' and I'll – Damn it!" he swore and stood up, pacing. "The car! _All my tapes are in the car!"_ He grabbed the player and flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall, just missing the windows.

Sam jumped in alarm. _He_ was supposed to be the one in distress, wasn't he? Dean was supposed to be the one _in_ _control_. Something was incredibly wrong.

As Sam stared at his brother's hunched and shaking form, his vision flickered violently. There were now two Deans, overlapping, shifting in and out of focus. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, hard, then opened them again. But this time it didn't stop the visions. One Dean moved a step toward the door, and half a beat later the second Dean dragged along behind him, a blurry trail of light flowing between them. It nearly gave Sam vertigo to watch. Telling himself it wasn't real, that it was just another hallucination, didn't help much.

"Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"'M fine. Really." Waving one of his hands weakly, Dean added, "Headache."

A headache. _Right_. "You didn't eat anything," Sam pressed.

Dean straightened slowly as he locked his eyes with Sam. "Not hungry."

And Sam knew it for the bald-faced lie it was. The only time he could recall his brother refusing food was when they'd faced Famine, and that was not a usual situation. Plus, there was the rolling gurgle that filled the room. Dean said he wasn't hungry, but his stomach obviously had a different opinion.

A look of defiance plastered itself across Dean's face ( _both_ of Dean's faces). Sam had to look away, it was just too freaky. He wished desperately that his vision would clear, or that Dean would start acting normally again. It didn't matter where he looked though, because the squiggling and smoking and glowing objects were creeping back into sight. Sam felt himself starting to hyperventilate. He and Dean were both breaking apart at the same time. And unfortunately, it seemed Sam was the one thinking more clearly at the moment.

"Dean, maybe we ought to call Bobby…"

But Dean was hurtling toward the door, panting, "Need air." He burst out onto the porch, Sam close on his heels. He sank to the steps, shuddering, looking about three seconds away from throwing up. _What the hell was wrong with him?_

* * *

The scrap yard was blanketed in darkness. The only illumination was a single flickering floodlight, the pool of light so weak that it seemed to gather shadows towards it rather than dispelling them. Dean leaned back against the wall of the house and stared at the stars. They were so clear, so bright; certainly brighter than the floodlight. His vision swam briefly, then cleared with a snap as Sam spoke.

"Dude, what is happeningto us?" Sam asked softly, bewilderment coloring his words as he sank to the steps.

Before either of them could make any guesses, Dean cringed at approaching footsteps. His ears were so attuned to every little noise now that he heard the very slight sound of grass crunching.

"Who's there?" he called out hoarsely. From his spot on the steps Sam tensed, but he made no move to stand.

No answer came. The crunching changed from grass to gravel as a small figure in a dark tailored suit and long coat emerged. As it came closer, it manifested a pale rounded face above a black shirt and red satin tie.

"Well, if it isn't Butch and Sundance," Crowley intoned casually. "Course right now you look more like McMurphy and the Chief." With a wry twist of his lips he added, "Though I'm hard pressed to figure which of you _cuckoos_ is which. Do you switch?"

Sam's eyes widened, as he expected visions of untold horror to appear over and around Crowley's form. But… it was just Crowley. Frowning, Sam shifted his attention back to the situation.

Growling, Dean stood up and made an attempt at looking fierce. "What the hell do you want, Crowley?"

"World peace," the King of Hell smirked, "And harsher punishment for parole violators."

Dean snarled a warning but Crowley just shook his head. The demon looked up at the same stars that Dean had been gazing at, but acted as if he saw something completely different than what Dean had been seeing. The demon sounded almost sad (and just what the hell was Dean thinking with that—this was _Crowley_ ) as he said, "You know, I've been witness to a few examples of ethnic cleansing in my time. Trail of Tears. Soviet Famine of '32. The Killing Fields. The ever-popular Final Solution. But boys, I have never seen one that was as utterly successful as what I am calling the _Casso Angelicus_. Beautifully appropriate name, if I do say so myself."

Lowering his eyes back to the humans, Crowley's lips twitched even though he didn't look amused. "I want credit for that in the history books."

Dean didn't like the sound of it, though of course he didn't understand a single word. "What are you talking about?"

Crowley really did look sad now. ( _And wasn't that just disturbing_ , Dean muttered within his own mind.)

"The extinction of a species," the demon responded softly. After a pause that made it clear neither Dean nor Sam (who at least should have been able to translate the Latin and mutter it to him, Dean groused internally, but then Sam was not exactly at his best right now) comprehended, Crowley sighed. "'The End of the Angels', my friend. The entirety of angel-kind has been wiped out by your precocious boyfriend." At Dean's overly wide eyes, he inserted, "Ex, now, I suppose."

A long and horrified moment passed before either Winchester could open their mouths.

Sam finally whispered, "Is that even possible?"

Crowley snorted, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't. You think I wouldn't rather be hiding in the deepest pits of Hell right now? I'd bunk down in the Cage if I thought I'd be welcome." He clenched his jaw as he said, "And therein lies another part of the problem, lads."

Dean snapped hoarsely, "What problem? Damn it, would you just give us a straight answer?"

"Would you be able to tell even if I did?" Crowley snapped back. After a moment of silent glaring, the demon grumbled, "Fine. Castiel has gone on a binge." He stomped a bit closer to both Winchesters, brows furrowed deeply.

"Apparently, every soul in Purgatory was just a bloody appetizer. When he went off to 'punish' Raphael's troops, he decided the best solution was to _eat_ _them_." He sneered at the horror on Dean's white face. "The salad portion of his four-course meal, perhaps."

Shaking violently now, Dean whispered, "No… no way."

" _Way_ , mate," Crowley laughed without humor. "Didn't stop with them, either. Went right on to soup and ate the whole Host of Heaven. Every last angel is now swimming in his gullet. Except, that is, for two."

The silence that fell was deafening. Sam spoke into it, cautiously.

"Lucifer and Michael."

" _Spot on_." Crowley jabbed his finger at Sam as if he were a pleased collegiate professor praising a student on some minor lecture point, and not the King of Hell discussing the eradication of what was, essentially, the basis for the entire Judeo-Christian faith.

Dean was breathing fast and shallow now, clutching at Sam's shoulder. Sam stood and grabbed his elbow as Dean swayed on his feet, then eased him down to sit on the porch steps again.

Crowley went on. "Castiel is taking a brief break to digest, I suppose, but he'll be moving on soon to crack open Hell, to finish his second course and his two remaining brothers. But I don't expect him to leave the table. No, he will eat all of Hell while he's there. Honestly, I don't even know if he'll call that the main course; he might. If so, his dessert will be the human souls on earth." The demon's eyes bored into those of Sam and Dean. "With you two as his sweet after-dinner mints."

Dean's heart was pounding so hard he was certain it was audible to everyone. "No… Cas said he was the new God. A better one… He wouldn't… he wouldn't do that."

Crowley chuckled derisively. "You think you know a guy. Trust me, a taste of that much power is the worst thing for an addictive personality. Castiel is a raging soul-fiend right now, and he won't stop. If there's a soul to be snorted or mainlined, he'll have it. Mark my words."

"You're a damned liar, Crowley," Dean growled.

An eyebrow lifted. "Am I?"

"You're a demon," Dean said, as if that explained everything.

"If you think about it," Crowley's voice was deceptively light, "you'll realize how few lies I've actually told you in our acquaintance, Dean. Painful truths suit me far better. But we don't have time for debating this…"

Dean sat up and shrugged Sam's hands off, shouting, "You're lying! He's still Cas! Somewhere in there, _he's still Cas!_ "

Sam stared at his brother. It was the first time since they'd returned to Bobby's house that Dean had been willing to discuss Castiel at all. The words coming out of his brother's mouth weren't at all what Sam had expected.

"Dean, you said he'd gone dark side and there was no hope…"

"The hell with that, I was wrong," Dean coughed painfully, his eyes filled with sorrow. With faint horror, Sam wondered if his brother was going to cry. "I was wrong, I should've… should've stopped him. Helped him... I've _lost_ him, Sam."

Crowley frowned darkly. "Too right. You know what could've saved your angel? A kind word. A genuine expression of caring. Showing him that he really was 'family' like you sodding Winchesters like to claim. Hell, a _hug_." He smirked filthily. "In your case, Dean, a 'special' hug. But too late for all of that now. I very much doubt there is a 'Cas' as you knew him left inside that junkie mess."

Dean's face twisted in pain and grief; it was clear he was seconds away from crying. Sam squeezed his shoulder, trying to forestall it. The idea of Dean breaking down in tears was so foreign to the younger man, and doing it in front of Crowley? Unthinkable, before tonight.

"So, if he's not Cas anymore, and he's eating souls and angels, and probably moving on to eat Hell… Why are you here, talking to _us_?" Sam asked. "Cas won't listen to us. He wanted us to bow down and worship him. We're nothing but… supplicants to him now."

This stopped Dean's potential tears, by making him go numb and still. He turned paler than ever, and felt himself sinking like the ground was sucking him down.

Crowley said, " _You_ are, maybe, for the moment. But not _you_." He nodded down at Dean. "Deny it all you want, but that former angel of the Lord would do anything for you. You're not so much of an idiot that you can't see that. Right now, before he's so far gone you'll never see a trace of him again, he just might remember that fact and listen. To _you_. If you beg prettily enough."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here," Sam insisted.

"Doesn't it? I'd be willing to deal with Castiel, but he won't listen to me, that's for damned sure. If, however, someone else – _Dean_ – was willing to try to convince him to take only Lucifer and Michael, and leave the rest of Hell to me… then I'd be willing to help that same-said person –again, _Dean_ – to find a way to flush out the Purgatory from our loftily ascended little darling. Get your Cas back, if he still exists underneath all that smut."

Dean couldn't even answer now, though his eyes glinted with something his brother prayed was hope. Sam said, "Crowley, if there is a way to help Cas…"

"I might be able to find a way. There are countless souls in Hell with mystical experience and somewhere in that combined knowledge might be a solution." At the lack of impressed responses, Crowley grunted, "It's the best I can offer, damn it. Do you want Castiel back or not?"

Dean gasped, trying to sit up. "Yes."

Crowley smirked. "Then pucker up, boy-o."

Sam scowled and held up a hand to ward Crowley away. "You're not a crossroads demon, pal, no way."

Crowley sighed. "Worth a shot. Fine. Handshake?"

Trembling, Dean leaned forward, fully prepared to make the deal, much to Sam's amazement. But his eyes suddenly rolled up and he collapsed backward. Sam barely caught him before his head hit the porch. "Dean!"

Crowley grumbled, "Damn it, thought I'd have more time before that happened." He said more loudly as he turned to leave, "If we can, the offer still stands."

As Dean lifted his head and tried to focus his gaze on the demon, Crowley made a decision and turned back, staring them both very hard in the eyes.

"You do realize how unbelievable this whole tawdry transaction was, don't you? How _hypocritical_ you all are? Bobby made a deal with me. You two have made multiple deals with me already, and here Dean is, ready to do it again. Yet when Castiel did the same, and for the same sort of reasons, I might add… you turn on him."

The demon waited several seconds for this to sink in, watching the humans cringe and wallow in angst.

Sam's eyes watered with the strain of looking at Crowley. The demon's general appearance hadn't changed, but there were wisps of smoke around the edges of his form now. Sam didn't want to see anything else hellish, things were bad enough. He started to close his eyes, but Crowley went on talking.

"I tried to warn Castiel that it would turn out this way. Your sense of 'family' isn't as clear cut as you like to pretend. Frankly, if you bastards weren't so damned important in the grand scheme, even I wouldn't associate with you."

He turned again to leave, then casually said, "By the way, Sam? If I were you, I'd get that Tibetan _preta_ out of Dean before it sucks him dry. See you around."

Crowley disappeared in a blaze of black smoke, and Sam blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them. Then he realized what Crowley had said, and swung his head to stare at Dean. The double vision had returned, the two Deans flickering over and under his brother's body. Now he understood, it wasn't _just_ _Dean_ ; it was Dean and the monster – the _preta_ – masquerading as Dean.

It knew that he knew, and it dropped its disguise to rear up from Dean's back and shriek at Sam. The rows of razor teeth snapped at Sam's hands as he tried to swat at it, but there was no physical connection. It wasn't afraid of Sam now. Dean was being used and tormented by a creature he didn't know how to stop.

As Dean began to have what looked like a mini-seizure, Sam heard a crack of thunder and the droning of wings. Holding Dean's head so it wouldn't hit the porch, Sam squinted as the air seemed to pulse. A flare of reddish light popped into being in the middle of the yard, and Castiel appeared.

The former angel was shaking and grinning maniacally. Troubling as that sight was, what Sam saw beyond it was _horrible_.

A great shadow swelled up from Castiel's vessel, tall as a skyscraper, wavering into space like a flag in a hurricane. It was made of nightmares. Streaks of white light that could have been angel grace fluttered in the swarm of uncountable dark and oily things, full of teeth and eyes. Somewhere at the edges of it all where wings, so many wings…

Castiel raised his hand, and a ball of light pulsed then snapped out to snare the preta. It screamed in agony as it was reeled back toward Castiel like a fish on a line, and exploded into glass-like fragments which Castiel virtually inhaled. His eyes closed and he breathed deeply until every bit of the creature was gone, a look of bliss on his face. When he opened his eyes again, they were so blue it was almost painful.

"You see, Dean?" he grinned. "I've come. I heard your distress, and I've come." Castiel's voice had a sort of reverberation, a hint of whispers trying to speak around his words. His smile was nearly a grimace. "Even though you defy Me, renounce Me… I am a loving God. I will always help you when you are in need. I saved you, again. Dean…" The former angel reached a trembling hand towards the hunter.

As Dean regained his faculties, he stared at Castiel, listened to those words. Then he closed his eyes against the terrible view. His friend was worse than he'd seen in the future, when Cas had been a stoned mess of self-loathing. Dean's heart was very close to breaking.

Castiel was trying to stand still and proud, like a God should, but failing. He jerked and vibrated, the force of the nearly infinite souls inside him tugging in countless directions. He looked sad, and more than a little tired.

"Do you know, all Gods have been known by many names," he said so softly, though Dean and Sam could hear clearly. "Even Father. He was _El-Shaddai_ , the Almighty. _Adonai_ , the Master. Even simply _Yahweh_ , I Am. But Me… I am Legion." Castiel laughed aloud, almost hysterically, then bit his lip to silence it. "Isn't it ironic? Each one inside Me has a name and is screaming for attention, demanding to be heard, to be loved. And I do love them. They fill the hollow places. I am their Caretaker and Father now. A whole _universe_ inside Me." He laughed again, far too loudly. In a sing-song, he said, " _I've got the whole world in My hand…"_

Recovering swiftly from the preta's influence, Dean finally stood. He wasn't sure whether to run away or go forward and try to help, though in what way he could never guess.

Castiel's trembling grew more violent. He giggled almost uncontrollably, his teeth chattering like he was freezing.

"I think," he stuttered, "I feel… sick."

He fell forward onto his knees and hands, gagging roughly as though he would vomit. He heaved for a long moment, then wobbled and sat back on his heels, hands flopped loosely at his sides and dragging on the ground. His eyes were huge and frightened as he stared upward into the black sky.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed in a tiny voice, "I'm sorry…."

His stomach bulged and rolled, and Castiel gurgled as though in surprise as he opened his mouth. With a scream to break open the heavens, the souls of Purgatory rushed from him in a roiling grotesque wave of horror. Smoke, fire, and slime, all of it brackish and filthy, poured forth. It seemed endless. Castiel howled in pain as the souls tore away from within him and filled the night sky, blocking the stars.

Sam and Dean held back until it finally ended, and Castiel had fallen onto his side. Dean rose to run forward, his instinct to help regardless of consequence kicked in at last.

But Castiel was twitching again, and he held up a weak hand. His eyes, glowing blue, affixed to Dean's with something akin to desperation.

"Shut your eyes," he croaked, "shut them."

Dean backed away rapidly. He and Sam covered their faces and cringed as the white glow still managed to sneak into the corners of their vision.

Castiel shuddered as the light cracked through, glaring out of his eyes, mouth, ears, tips of his fingers. His chest seemed to burst open, and he gave an unearthly sound that nearly pierced human eardrums.

The explosion was hard enough to knock Sam and Dean over, shoving them together up against the side of the house. The floodlight sparked, bursting like fireworks. Stacked junker cars were toppled throughout the yard, crashing with a great squeal and groan of metal. The light and sound permeated everything. Then it ended with a thump that rattled the ground.

Shaking and gasping, Sam and Dean slowly uncovered their ringing ears and blinked open watering eyes. They struggled upright and saw, illuminated only by the moon, a scrap yard that looked like a bomb had hit, cars tossed like toys.

Dean saw Castiel's vessel, small in the darkness, flat on the ground with eyes wide and unblinking. He ran toward the body on unsteady feet. Around Cas were the ashy shapes of wings. Many wings, overlapping each other and spread out in many directions. He suspected they were lucky to be alive in the presence of that much exploded angel grace.

He knelt near Castiel's still body and reached toward the pale face. He didn't know what he meant to do, perhaps close the staring eyes. But they blinked. His hand halted as Castiel breathed in shallowly.

"Cas," Dean gasped, "oh my God, Cas…"

Castiel's lips were moving now, he was mouthing silent words. Dean leaned closer, and heard the tiny voice:

"I'm alive. I'm alive…" A pause. "I'm alone…"

Dean's throat worked as he tried to think of what to do. All he could manage was to hover over Castiel, hands gripping the former angel's arms as if to hold him together. Cas had passed out again, but he was alive.

* * *

Dean was hunched over the open hood of the Impala, assessing the damage and running his hand lovingly over the grill. His dirty t-shirt and faded, worn jeans were liberally splashed with oil, having been already inspecting it for some time.

"Oh, baby..." he murmured, "I know it hurts, but we'll get you fixed again. Better than new, I promise."

Bobby came out to join Dean, bringing a beer. Without glancing behind, Dean reached a hand out for the bottle he knew was being extended to him and grunted in thanks as he cracked it open. Only after taking several healthy swallows did he straighten and glance across the mess that was the scrap yard. Cars were tumbled everywhere, spread out in a rough circle from the blast point. It reminded him unpleasantly of the ring of flattened trees around his gravesite the day he returned from hell.

"Damn mess here," Bobby grumbled. "I'm gonna have to rent a crane just to get _my_ crane unearthed, so I can get everything back in order."

Trying to bring a bit of levity to the situation, Dean teased, "This junk was actually in order once?"

Snorting, Bobby said, "Smart aleck." He drained half his bottle and sighed before saying, "So we think we've found a formula for some potion that might help Sam control these visions. At least take the edge off the worst of it. Not sure how well it'll work, but we're gonna try."

"Better than nothing at all." Pausing, Dean added, "Wonder if it'll work on the nightmares, too. Kinda wish I'd had it myself, when I got outta hell." With a wistful sigh he said, "I wish Cas-"

Bobby gave Dean a scathing look, but he continued on, undeterred.

"I wish Cas was here. Ya know, _our_ Cas, the one we thought..." Dean swallowed hard. "He said he was gonna save Sam when it was over, and I... despite everything, I was a stupid bastard and believed him. But now it's over, and he can't do a thing. He screwed us and himself so completely, and..." Breaking off, Dean sniffed hard and visibly shook off whatever he was aiming for and instead said, firmly, "We just gotta do the best we can now."

"Like drive back to the hospital and rip the tubes right out of him?" Bobby suggested vindictively, his voice a rumbling threat.

The suggestion was more than a little disturbing to Dean. "No." At Bobby's stubborn, dark expression, he said more pointedly, "No, Bobby. He's just about human now."

Scoffing, Bobby said, "Yeah, as far as we know."

"For God's sake, Bobby, dude's in a coma. So just... leave it." Scowling, Dean rubbed at his forehead, leaving a streak of grease behind. "If he ever wakes up, I'll... we'll deal with it then." Dean could tell that Bobby had caught his slip, his intention to be the one to make any and all decisions concerning Castiel, but for reasons Dean wasn't going to poke at during that moment, the older hunter decided to not argue with him about it.

Bobby simply shook his head, sighed, and walked back towards the house. "Gotta make some calls."

Dean nodded, set the beer on a nearby bench, cracked his aching back, and stared at nothing for a long moment.

The fact that his brother was seeing evil things, that his best friend might be lost forever… and the fact that there were millions of monsters on the loose, probably digging their way into innocent meat suits right now, and a fair number of them interested in eating the Winchesters alive for truly personal reasons…

Those facts would have to wait. Dean ducked his head back under the Impala's hood, steadfastly burying his head in his work.

 

* * *

Sam sat in the study with a huge leather-bound book, grinding ingredients with a mortar and pestle. He'd pulverized the ginger root, sea salt, olibanum and myrrh. Dumping this into the brass bowl of castor oil, he mixed until it was a yellowish paste. Separately, he ground _draconis resina_ in another dish while muttering the incantations in the book. His face twitched in pain the further he read.

He added the final ingredient and took up the gold-plated knife needed to stir it in. He whisked it around ten times, whispering the last words of the spell. The mixture turned deep red for a moment, and then faded to nearly transparent.

He was getting quite a headache now. With a determined set to his shoulders, he dipped his fingers into the pasty mess. He smeared this in an 'X' across the center of his forehead.

Almost immediately he was assaulted by a wave of mind-numbing pain. Gasping, he grabbed the edge of the desk, squeezing his eyes shut. The pain thankfully faded just as suddenly.

Opening his eyes carefully, Sam saw auras around certain items in Bobby's home. A book here or there, the demon knife on the table across the room, his own hand. Each had a different energy signature. The demon knife steadily dripped fresh blood. The book beside him vibrated and shivered, the leather binding a faint blue glow. His hand was a soft purple. He wiped it on his pant leg, but all that did was transfer the glow. Hopefully it would wash out in the laundry.

Sam's face fell in dread and resignation. This, he knew, would be his life for a long time to come, with or without the potion.

 

 

 _~ END ~ (for now)_

**Author's Note:**

> \+ The title "The Hunger" refers to many types of hunger being expressed, especially by Castiel and Dean. It's also the name of a [1983 cult vampire movie](http://bit.ly/cmaMtZ). Earlier seasons of SPN used movie titles as much as song titles, maybe more so.
> 
> \+ Regarding the names Castiel gives himself in the first scene – 'Agape' ( Αγαπη ) is Greek and means "love (of god for man)" as well as "brotherly love", so it's dually appropriate here. 'El-Kanno' ( כנןא אל ) is Hebrew and translates as both "the jealous God" or "the zealous God", which aren't much different in most contexts; basically, God demands exclusivity and promises to "purify that which is unworthy" and therefore is not to be crossed.
> 
> \+ Translation is probably not grammatically correct (Latin is not a strong suit) but 'Casso Angelicus' means "destruction (or void) of angels". The fact that casso is so very similar to the name of the God doing the voiding here was, as Crowley says, beautifully appropriate.
> 
> \+ More information about the [Tibetan Preta](http://bit.ly/lYK3rh) and [hungry](http://bit.ly/4rYsdm) [ghosts](http://bit.ly/mQs79Z). Dean is meant to be influenced by the creature's hunger which play into his own innate hungers. He becomes, like the preta, unable to enjoy the things he normally loves and craves, to the point it becomes painful. And of course those hungers include emotional things, which made ever-suppressive Dean perfect prey for this creature.
> 
> \+ The way the preta's head opens wide, like a hinged box, is meant to be reminiscent of a certain Reach toothbrush commercial cartoon (a terrifying image to one of the authors here, but humorous to the other – go figure).
> 
> \+ Sam's anti-vision ointment is based on the 'Fiery Wall of Protection' from "The Element Encyclopedia of 5000 Spells" by Judika Illes. The only changes made were poetic license: brass bowl, gold knife, and stirring ten times. Spells against the evil eye or nightmares would have been preferable, but none seemed right. Fiery Wall is used largely against personal attacks, both physical and psychic, but many of the ingredients are also used in personal aura cleansing spells, so it's close enough. Ironically, it is also connected with the archangel Michael, but we're not ever intending that to be the case for this fic.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------
> 
> * Won't add "not redundant" to the list of what we hope to accomplish because - guess what? - there's nothing new under the sun. Repetition is impossible to avoid. We'll do our best to at least offer something a little different than has been on the show yet.


End file.
